


summer suns and poetics

by venomedveins



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, No Smut, Over use of poets, Sappy, and art, cuteness, high school fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6491512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is heavily inspired by Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.</p><p>Just a quick one shot for habibinasir as we suffer through listening to the audio book and crying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer suns and poetics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [habibinasir (lulu_kitty)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulu_kitty/gifts).



“I want to see you.

Know your voice.

Recognize you when you  
first come 'round the corner.

Sense your scent when I come  
into a room you've just left.

Know the lift of your heel,  
the glide of your foot.

Become familiar with the way  
you purse your lips  
then let them part,  
just the slightest bit,  
when I lean in to your space  
and kiss you.

I want to know the joy  
of how you whisper  
"more” 

― Rumi 

 

 

The summer heat is relentless, recording breaking temperatures that curl the crab grass along the dusty backgrounds of Montgomery County. All the creek beds have receded and yet are full, kids running through yellow fields to the woods, dodging water moccasins and mosquitoes in the dingy water. There is a sense of finality here, the sun glaring down as a judge and jury. Agron has grown up here all his life, has the mud of the Mississippi running through his veins. He knows how to catch a crawdad with his bare hands, remembers every path through Shimmick Forest, recalls how sharp the blades of corn are against bare skin, has fallen asleep numerous nights to the sounds of cicadas and crickets, and can find the North Star even in a cloudy night sky. He supposes none of that really matters now, now that the scent of polyester has just began to fade - the cap and gown heavy on his body. He's eighteen and in the fall will trade in his football uniform for Marine blues. 

Agron tries not to think about it too much, bounding down the back porch steps and into the long spans of grass behind his house. It connects through a small chain link fence to his neighbors, the Pierces, whose house is large and white. Their yard hasn’t fared much better in the heat, garden stones sprouting up between gray and brown weeds, dandelions over running where tomatoes are supposed to grow. None of that really matters to Agron as he hops over the metal, sneakers billowing up a cloud of dirt when he lands. What he's more interested in is sprawled out in the hammock between two large oak trees. 

There are a pair of worn red Chucks at the base of one of the trees. The laces are undone, tops flopped over as if even in the heat they can't be bothered to stand. Above them, the hammock spans in a dusty faded arch. It used to have blue and yellow and red Navajo print, but it's faded to a smear of colors instead, old and well used. The summer breeze is causing it to shift slightly, back and forth, back and forth, and over the edge a single foot extends, toes pointed down, sole pale and soft looking. Agron can see an old string bracelet wrapped around the ankle, blue and purple and green. It looks well loved too, knot on the back frayed into a blob of string. 

The foot is attached to a calf, shapely with muscle, followed by a thigh. It's here where the skin almost looks like a secret, soft and smooth, bronze like the rest of it but seeming to press together delicately. The white edges of cut off shorts lingers high up, dancing across in a single line that extends down to the curve between. The shorts lead up to one exposed hipbone, a chest hidden behind a frayed and old Guns & Roses t-shirt, shoulders cut o. The pistols are faded and cracked from wear. 

The boy's face is hidden by the red cover of a book, two gray scale figures clutching one another in the center. 

"You know, it's summer." Agron casually leans against one of the oak trees, one knee bending.

"That's why they call it a summer reading list," Nasir lowers the corner of his book just slightly, just enough to glance at Agron before returning. Like a good best friend who knows too much, Agron doesn't comment about Nasir's bloodshot eyes, nor the small bruise on his temple. 

Nasir's foster parents are Bill and Susan Pierce. They're white, good Christians that put crosses on their walls, give to charity, and try really hard not to fight loud enough for others to hear. They used to be missionaries, or at least that's what they say, or at least, that's the excuse they given when people look at them and then look at Nasir. Nasir whose last name is Hamad, who all is brown skin and brown eyes and brown hair and speaks Arabic when he's upset. Nasir who remembers his brother and remembers the sun rising over the markets of Damascus, but cannot remember what his mother's voice sounds like. Susan calls Nasir her little blessing, at least, she does in public when her "real" children are nearby. Two older boys - Julius and Marcus that used to pick on Nasir until Spartacus and Agron hit their growth spurt in freshman year. Bill sometimes still forgets that Agron has been in ROTC training since he was thirteen and can kill a man with nothing more than his hands. 

"You work too hard," Agron reaches out to loop his fingers through the rope holding the hammock in place. “You need to relax a little.”

"You don't work at all." Nasir finally relents, pressing his book down onto his chest. He's pulled his hair up into a bun at the top of his crown, sweat ringlets falling out. "What do you want?"

"I'm bored. You want to go on a walk with me? We can go to the factory and the seven eleven." Agron tries for persuading, rocking the hammock a little more. "I'll buy you an Icee."

"I'm reading." Nasir's eyes dart down to Agron's waist, seeming to size up his gray tank top, stuck tight to his skin by the sweat, and the baggy nylon shorts he pulled on, the Nike emblem on the edge. He quickly hides his face behind his book again.

"The Divine Comedy?" Agron groans, tilting his head back dramatically to the bark of the tree. "You don't even like comedy!"

"It's about hell," Nasir deadpans, glancing back over the top of his book, "You know? Dante? Virgil?"

"Isn't that the guy who boned Rimbaud and tried to kill him?" Agron asks, picking disinterestedly at his nails. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the dark space between where Nasir's shorts meet his leg and where they gap. It's like a hidden cave, the location of Nasir's more intimate parts, the skin probably warm from where the sun is cutting across the fabric. Agron quickly looks again. 

"You make it sound like he Rimbaud did nothing to him, and that was Verlaine. Virgil wrote the Aenid." Nasir sighs, "You know that books about the Romans you hate?"

"Oh. Yeah. _Let me rage before I die._ " Agron shrugs one shoulder, he glances up again, noticing Nasir staring at him with a conflicted look on his face. "So are you coming or are we going to sit around and debate some more Roman epics? Want me to go get my copy of Homer?"

Slipping a scrap of fabric into his book. Nasir sits up and reaches for his shoes. He meticulously pulls on the socks from inside, arranging them until the line stretches across the width of his toes before tying the sneakers in two perfect double knots. He hopes out then, abandoning Dante on top of the worn nylon hammock.

"Lead on, Odysseus." 

Nasir makes a waving motion towards the open gate on the side of the yard. Outside, the word stretches bright and hot. 

"Now Nasir," Agron wraps an arm around his shoulders for a moment, a companionable motion before slipping away. "You know that I'm Achilles."

"Achilles?" Nasir tilts his head back, glancing up at Agron through a wisp of hair, "And I suppose that makes me what? Paris?"

"Paris? How could you think that you’re that whiny shit?" Agron sticks his tongue out, shaking his head, "You're Patroclus."

He glances away too soon to see the flush spread over Nasir's cheeks, head ducking. 

\- - - 

To get to the seven eleven, Agron and Nasir cut across two streets and through a long park with a playground on one side and a baseball field on the other. There is a group of younger teens hitting around a ball, shouting at one another just explicitly enough that the mothers near the sand pit are glaring over the top of their toddlers' heads. The whole park seems to be like a forgotten idea, the wooden benches sagging and paths dirt packed but lacking any cement. It’s not the nice part of town, but in a place like this, there are no really nice parts. 

Every few steps, Agron's fingers will brush along the spans of skin where Nasir's shorts end and his thigh begins. It's warm there, sun-kissed and damp from sweat. Nasir doesn't shy away from the touch, his own shoulder brushing into Agron as well. They're walking close enough that Agron can smell the coconut in Nasir's hair, can see the bead of sweat curling down his jaw. 

It’s always been like this for them. The Geiszler family had moved into their house first, Agron being eight when a six year old Nasir had come back from Syria, adopted and sporting a new family. They had met in their yards, through their fence with smiles and whispers, leading to play dates, leading to ten years of friendship. Agron cannot image anyone taking Nasir’s place, not even Spartacus. 

"You excited for school next year?" Agron doesn't know what to say to Nasir sometimes. He'd rather spend the time listening to Nasir speak then trying to come up with his own reply, not because he’s shy, but words don’t always come easy to him. 

"It will be weird without you and Spartacus and Crixus. Pietros is all fucked up about Barca leaving too." Nasir skids his heel in the dirt on purpose, a cloud of dust coming up around his ankle. “He’s acting like it’s some Nicholas Sparks novel.”

“Except Barca isn’t a middle-class white guy though. Nor is he straight,” Agron smirks, shaking his head, “And no one has some life-threatening illness.”

“You guys are leaving though.” Nasir says it the way that people say “My taxes are due.” or “We broke up.” 

"Yeah," Agron wishes he had something more reassuring to say, but it’s the truth. They are leaving. "You'll have Duro though. And Naevia and Mira."

"Won't be the same." His tone dips suddenly, melancholy tinging the words as Nasir curves his arms over his chest. He looks so much smaller when he does that. 

When they were younger, Agron eleven and Nasir just turned nine had watched The Craft one night on television when Nasir was allowed to stay the night. They spent the next day gathering up candles and feathers and jars and beads from the collapsed and abandoned houses around their neighborhood, creating their own little séance in one of the side yards. Duro had been allowed to come out, but had been too afraid to do anything. Instead, he had watched as Agron and Nasir stood together, hand in hand and chanted to the Goddess Moon. 

Agron wasn’t supposed to peek at the wish that Nasir had written down on the paper. They were supposed to be secret, but Agron has always been a snoop and had peeled back the red construction paper when Nasir was distracted by adjusting his beads around his neck. Nasir had wished for someone to love him. For the goddess to give him love. Agron had wanted to laugh then, confused as why Nasir could ever feel unloved, but then they fell asleep in the grass. When the sun rose and Julius came to fetch Nasir, sneering with hands digging into Nasir’s arm, Agron had stared at the two of them in realization. Even at eleven, Agron had realized that Nasir never expected anyone to stay and care for him because no one ever had. 

"We-" Agron bumps his wrist against denim, fingertips ghosting over Naisr’s palm. "I can write from basic. I know your address."

Tilting his head up, Nasir looks at him through his eyelashes. There is a small twist to his mouth, as if he's trying to hide a smile and a frown within himself. "Will you?"

"Do you want me to?" Agron isn't sure why he says it, just wants to hear Nasir say it. Wants to make sure. Agron has never considered the possibility of Nasir not being there, in his life, present and shining. The goddess hadn’t failed Nasir that night. She just knew that Agron had always been there.

"I mean, I guess," Nasir's teeth drag over his bottom lip, "who else is going to fill you in on all the drama happening here? Who won the Watermelon Queen pageant? Will Mr. Tucker ask out Miss Bailey? Will Russell Myers ever grow into his ears?"

"You're right." Agron nods solemnly, turning away to keep them moving. He doesn't know what he expected Nasir to say, what his reason would be, but Agron hates the twist of slightly damp disappointment that crowds in on him. "I couldn't miss all that."

"You're coming back though, right?" Nasir doesn't look up again, picking at the hem of his tank top. Agron can see the shadows under his eyes more clearly this way, the evidence of sleepless nights, of Nasir's life weighing. 

"Of course I am." 

Agron glances up at the blazing sun, wonders if he stares long enough if it will show himself in the way Agron wants to be seen and not the way others see him. He knows what his fate is, what he's supposed to do. Agron's dad has been crafting two soldiers since his sons were born. Agron was born with the skill, with the rage, with the affinity for blood. Duro was born with the god complex and ambition. There was never going to be anything else for them.

"Nasir." Agron skids to a stop, a hammering in his chest that he doesn't want to name or try and analyze. He just needs Nasir to be there, to believe him. "I mean it. I'm coming back."

Nasir takes a moment, dragging the scuffed white toe of his shoes through the grass, before nodding once. 

"Okay."

 

\- - - 

The seven eleven is packed with middle school kids and old men fighting over lottery tickets when they get there. The smell of old nacho cheese and sweat stick to the walls, the cold burst of air conditioning a welcome relief. Agron shoulders them in and out of the aisles, glowering at the preteens trying to crowd together near the back and hide that they're flipping through Playboys. He can see the full spread of a woman over one of the boy's shoulders, the woman's legs spread wide with her hands behind her. She's blond and thin, shaved smooth everywhere. 

Cutting his eyes to the side, Agron lets his gaze slide over Nasir's cut offs, the indent in his thigh when he bends to pick up Art Forum on the bottom self. The shorts are from last summer, tight and worn and slide up in the back a little as he moves. Agron can almost see the soft sliver of skin at the hemline, the shadow of Nasir's ass dimpling there, a curve of a tan line. Sometimes, late at night, Agron thinks about that stretch of skin just above his jeans, where Nasir's back dimples, and right below, where it indents from his ass. He isn't obsessed, really, just sometimes thinks about how his hands would fit there.

Agron's stomach swoops a moment later when Nasir stands back up, scratching absent mindedly at his neck. 

"Do you even know what to do with a girl?" Agron asks, the boy, pointing at the woman. "A little advanced territory for ya?" 

"Do you, asshole?" The boy presses the magazine to his chest, turning around with a smirk. It's the fragile confidence of thirteen-year-old who just figured out that their dick can get wet, and yet he has a point. 

"You think I don't know how to fuck a girl?" Agron scoffs. The boy barely comes up to Agron's chest, raising one defiant eyebrow at him. 

"Nah. You look like a giant fag to me." He nudges his friend, laughing. Agron has to remind himself that his ID says he's eighteen now and kicking some eighth grader's ass to teach him a lesson is illegal. He can't even really be mad, considering what the boy is saying is true. Given the situation, it's not that Agron doesn't know what to do with a girl. He knows the theory. It's the desire that he lacks. Still, he’s not about to stand around and be verbally assaulted by some runt that looks like he just got potty trained yesterday.

"A fag? Is that what you call each other in your circle jerk?"

Agron glances over at Nasir. He doesn't seem to notice though, tapping his fingers to his mouth as he considers the Icee flavors.

"Fuck you!” The boy moves to step forward, eyes tracing over Agron, considering. The fact that Agron's bicep is as big as this kid's head seem to finally occur to him, his friends lingering back too when Agron curls his mouth in a snarl. 

"Here." Agron reaches forward around the relish packets and ketchup to grab a handful of napkins. "Bathrooms to your left. You boys make sure to wash your hands when you get done. Wouldn’t want you to share anything."

He turns around to find that Nasir has moved and is up at the counter, chatting with the clerk. Agron vaguely remembers him, some shit they go to school with, hangs out with some of the guys that smoke pot during lunch behind the gym. It's not so much that he's familiar, it's the way he's leering at Nasir, hungry and blatant. Castus is leaning nearly all the way over the counter to talk to Nasir, elbows digging into the glass. 

"Hey," Agron shoves his way forward, looming tall and broad shouldered next to Nasir. He can see the recognition dawning across Castus' face, recoiling slightly when Agron shoves his Gatorade up on the glass. "You ready?" 

"Yeah," Nasir flips the magazine shut in front of him, motioning towards the cover. "Castus and I were just talking about Orozco. Apparently he's seen some of his work in person."

"Yeah, family took a vacay to Mexico last summer. He's like the Banksy of San Ildefonso College." Castus shrugs, chest puffing up as if what he's just said is profound. Agron doesn't even have to glance at Nasir to know he's trying to hide his disgust. 

"Did you just compare José Clemente Orozco to _Banksy_?" Agron says it like you say disease or sewage. 

"I mean-" Castus doesn't get a chance to finish his statement. 

"You do know that Orozco along with Rivera and Siqueiros are the fathers of the Mexican Mural Renaissance?" Agron snarks, casually pulling his wallet from his back pocket, "And that without his work aimed at politics and the rights of peasants and workers, Mexico would have never been able to stabilize after the revolution. He gave a voice to the people."

"I-" Castus tries to speak again but Agron doesn't bother to listen, instead he's completely distracted by the wide eyed and thoroughly pleased look Nasir is giving him. His cheeks are rosy, eyes gleaming as he drums his fingers lightly around the styrofoam of his cup. There is a perfect spiral curl against his cheek, damp from sweat. 

Dazedly, Agron reaches out for his change, not even bothering to look at Castus. He isn’t sure he could look away if he wanted to. 

“Have a good day, Castus.” With a flip of his hair, Nasir turns towards the door, magazine in one hand and drink in the other, and Agron can do nothing but follow.

They're nearly to the train tracks before Nasir speaks up, squeaking his straw loudly when he pulls back from his Icee. He's chosen the red flavor, cherry, and the scent of it seems to stick to the humidity around them - artificial and sweet. 

"How did you know all those things about Rivera and Orozco?" He pronounces them in the correct Spanish way, caressing the vowels with his tongue. 

"I listen when you talk to me." 

“Oh.” Nasir blushes again, hiding it behind his cup. 

“You care so I care.”

With the sun behind him, Agron can see the golden shades of the sun reflecting off of Nasir's hair. It's hot enough that each strands shines, a golden halo adoring his beautiful face. Sometimes Agron wishes he had the balls to tell Nasir what he thinks, that Botticelli must have come back from the grave just to sculpt Nasir's face like one of his paintings. Nasir's soft eyes and his straight, broad nose, the curve of his mouth. He could show Agron a thousand slides of a thousand paintings and Agron would still pick out Nasir as the most beautiful. 

"Do you want some?" Nasir holds the large styrofoam cup out to Agron, the plastic straw dented from where Nasir has bitten it. On the side, a large polar bear in a sweater stares up at Agron as if he already knows the answer.

Nasir's lips are stained from the cherry syrup, not fully but fading from faint pink to crimson in the center. It makes them look fuller, soft when Nasir drags his tongue over them, tracing back and forth just inside. Agron can't help thinking about that line, the seam where Nasir's top lip meets his bottom, where Nasir breathes. Agron knows that if he leaned down and forward, he could press his own mouth to Nasir's, could taste the stain of sugar and cherries - of summer. He wonders if Nasir ever wonders about that, what it would feel like to fit together, to touch places that are secret, to know each other in ways that best friends don't. Agron has never kissed anyone and meant it, has never wanted to be gentle or soft with anything. Not until Nasir. 

He takes the cup and presses his mouth to the straw instead. 

\- - - 

They end up sprawled in an open patch of land, half shaded by the old skeleton of a factory. It used to have windows and when they were younger, Agron and Nasir and the rest of the gang would run through and play hide and seek when it rained. Once Julius and Marcus got older though and brought their friends around, the glass has been knocked out and the building was covered in graffiti. It looks more haunted than anything else, dark even in the brightest afternoon. 

Laying in a patch of dead crab grass, Agron and Nasir sprawl side by side but in opposite directions. From this angle, Agron can see the smooth lines and curves of Nasir’s neck, down to the angle of his jaw. He looks older from here, further away than Agron can reach. The thought of it scares him, that Nasir may be unreachable, may grow to be distant so Agron doesn’t recognize him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Agron can see the soft wrinkles on the back of Nasir’s knee. They’re soft looking, delicate as skin curves against skin, draped there. There is something intimate about it, Agron realizes, seeing these secret parts of Nasir that no one else does. Agron’s eyes track over the arch of one knee camp, how the skin swoops around it and then behind, where the hinge hides under tan skin and muscle. Agron suddenly gets the urge to press his mouth there, to recognize and be thankful for the small wonders of Nasir’s body, the pieces that work together to make sure Nasir is real and present and functioning now. 

“The sun is going to set soon,” Agron murmurs, eyes closed as the sun basks over him. He knows he’s going to be pink in the morning, sunburnt and sore, but he doesn’t bother moving. It’ll fade, like everything fades, until only little freckles are left. Marks that Agron will stare at and remember when he was close enough to smell the salt and soap on Nasir’s skin. 

“Yeah.” Nasir shifts, raising his head slightly, poking Agron’s hip where he’s tank top has ridden up. “You’re getting burnt.”

“Keep your face always toward the sunshine and shadows will fall behind you.” Agron murmurs, lips barely moving. His fingers twitch beside him, close enough that he can feel the warmth of Nasir’s but not touch. They’re always like this, close but not close enough. 

"Are you quoting Walt Whitman as me?" Nasir giggles, heels dragging in the grass, "You're such a nerd."

"Says the guy who knew it was Whitman," Agron nudges him then, can't resist feeling the way their bodies seem to magnetize together - snap and falling, catch and release. Agron aches with the need to roll closer, to press his hands over Nasir's body and feel his laughter. He settles for scooting around until he can rest his head against the soft dip in Nasir's waist, using him as a pillow. 

“Julius was asking about you again,” Nasir takes a deep breath like saying it is exhausting. 

“Yeah?” Agron can still taste the last remnants of cherries on his tongue, the sugar sticking to him. He wishes, distantly in the back of his mind where he keeps his secrets – the ones even from himself – that it were the lingerings of something else – something sacred. 

“He hasn’t stopped since homecoming when you scored that touch down.” Agron is acutely aware of every movement Nasir is making, his hands in the grass, the way his hips and stomach shift when he takes a deep breath, the rustling of his shirt when the evening breeze begins to play with the fabric. “I think he’s planning on asking you out soon.”

“Asking me out?” Agron laughs, short and loud. 

“You know what I meant,” Nasir waves a hand, struggling for a moment before getting the words out. “He wants to fuck you.”

“And I want a million dollars and a meat lovers supreme pizza.” Agron stretches his legs out, flexing his toes back and forth. “We all have to learn to live with disappointment.”

“He’s-“ Nasir has gone solid and stiff under Agron’s head, breath shuddering. “He’s very handsome. People tell him that. That he’s good looking.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Agron toys with the string on his shorts. That’s not true. Agron had noticed, but not that Julius is attractive. Agron had noticed the cruel glint in his eyes when he looks at Nasir, the snarl of his mouth every time something does go his way. Agron knows the look of a dangerous man when he sees it, already knows who Julius will grow into.

“But if you did,” Nasir pauses, swallows, then continues, “If you wanted to notice, I’d-“

“I don’t.” Agron reaches out, gently rubbing his wrist along Nasir’s, “Not him. Not ever.”

Agron can feel it before it happens, the sigh, the deep inhale and exhale of Nasir finally taking a breath. He deflates back against the grass, sprawled more fluidly now, one arm curling up to cradle his head from the dirt. Agron can just see out of the corner of his eye the way his mouth has tilted up on one side, self-indulgent and pleased. 

"Hey Agron?" Nasir's fingers slide deliciously through Agron's short hair, absentmindedly caressing him. Agron can barely swallow the pounding of his heart to reply, glad he is at an angle that Nasir can't clearly see his face. 

"Hm?" It's just a noise but Agron closes his eyes against it, suddenly afraid. Why was that? Why are questions sometimes so hard? Even when it's just a response to ones own name. 

"Do you feel...older?" Nasir hesitates on the word, sounding it out in his mouth. 

"I don't know," Agron replies, shrugging roughly. “Should I?”

“You’re eighteen. You’ve enlisted. You’re going to training in a few months,” Nasir’s fingers circle along Agron’s temple, nails tracing over his hairline. “You have your future before you. The rest of us – I’m still stuck spinning.”

“You’re sixteen, not dead, Nasir.” Agron tilts his head up, looks over the profile of Nasir’s face. The sky is romance colors, pinks and golds and reds, a summer heat blistering on the horizon. Agron can count the eyelashes along Nasir’s right eye if he wanted, the dark smudge a thick line against his cheeks. 

“I’m not really living either.”

The silence this time is heavy, thick with something that neither one of them can name. Agron wants nothing more than to cure it, to banish away the elephant that sits stagnant and thick between them. He wants to be a man that words come naturally to, that he can comfort and save Nasir some of the sorrow that lives inside of him. Agron used to wonder, when they were small, if there aren’t some people that are born sad. That cannot escape it. He doesn’t want to believe that for Nasir. He has seen joy on Nasir’s face, real joy, though it is fleeting, and yet Agron would do anything to make it stay there. 

It’s the urgency that flips him over, elbows digging into the earth. He’s shoulder height with Nasir, watching his eyes flutter in the dying light. And it suddenly seems too real, the possibility that this may be one of the last times they are like this. That someday soon, Agron will be a hundred miles away and he won’t be the one that Nasir comes to when he’s sad or lonely or happy or angry. That Agron’s role will be filled with another. 

“Nasir.” Agron’s voice is loud in the silence, catching the other boy off guard. Nasir’s eyes flutter open, wide and clear. 

“What?” It comes out as whisper, the breath of it ghosting across Agron’s cheek. They’re so close that Agron can see the circle of green around Nasir’s pupil. 

“Don’t-“ Agron swallows once, “Don’t fall in love with Castus while I’m gone, okay?”

Nasir’s eyes track over Agron’s face, from the slope of his forehead to his eyes to his nose, and linger on his mouth. Agron wants nothing more than to lean into it, to take what he’s been aching for so long, but he has to know first. He has to have this promise, this vow. It’s all too much and all too sudden but Agron can’t do this properly. He has to do it now, when Nasir is here and he’s here and the light is still on them.

“I won’t.” Nasir smiles, soft and small. 

“Don’t fall in love with anybody.”

“And you?” Nasir taps his fingers against Agron’s collarbones. 

“There has never been anyone else.”

It’s out before Agron can stop himself, softer still and his fingers curl in the grass before him. He watches Nasir’s eyes widen for a moment, surprised before biting his bottom lip, grinning behind it. 

“Okay.”

They stare at each other, the golden rays of summer the only thing separating them now. Agron can see the flecks of spun gold drifting through the air, the way Nasir’s stained mouth is parted, his breath soft and sweet against Agron’s own mouth. It’s like a kiss of a breath, exchanged between them, and Agron cannot breathe but he can breathe. 

“If I asked you-“ Nasir stops, fingertips slipping over Agron’s shoulder. 

“You have to ask.” Agron can feel his heart slamming into his ribs, beating hard enough he’s sure that Nasir can hear it too. "I need you to ask me."

"Why?" Nasir tilts his head slightly, confused. 

"Because then I know you want this as much as I do."

Agron watches Nasir lick his lips again, shuddering in a breath. It’s torture and pleasure and what poets write sonnets about, waxing for hours about the sins of the flesh. Agron cannot see any sin here. Cannot think or linger or digest anything but the way Nasir looks, perfect and spread out, eyes big and seeing – for the first time it seems – what Agron has known for at least three years now. 

“Kiss me.”

Nasir seems to not even believe he said the words, but Agron heard them. He cups Nasir’s cheeks delicately between his hands, guiding him up until Agron can lean forward. Dragging his nose along Naisr’s in a sweet caress, Agron finally submits and presses his mouth warm and wet to Nasir’s. It seems that all of time zeros down into this moment, the air growing thick and wild when Nasir tilts his head back, fingers curling in Agron’s hair. 

The kiss stays innocent for a while, moving in tandem and caressing places that they never have, Agron beginning to memorize the feel of Nasir’s lips against his own, the taste of them to his tongue. How he shudders in a breath when he finally parts his lips, tentatively tracing the edge of Agron’s two front teeth. It seems as if an explosion after that as hands turn desperate, tongues and teeth knocking together as Agron and Nasir cling and battle to get closer. Nasir easily submits to Agron’s skill, moaning low when he finally lets Agron fully into his mouth. 

And then it’s over, both of them pulling back to gasp in breaths, staying close enough that every exhale is inhaled, every beating heart felt. The sun has just slipped behind the horizon, the last few rays of light blue beaconing out into the open sky, but neither men notice, staring at one another. 

“We are so close, no matter how far,” Agron murmurs, breath warm on Nasir’s lips, “Couldn’t be much more from the heart. Forever trusting who we are. And nothing else matters.”

“Neruda?” Nasir guesses, fingers tracing over Agron’s cupid’s bow. 

“Metallica.” 

Agron kisses the laughter out of Nasir’s mouth, not stopping until the moon has replaced the sun and everything is covered in shades of silver and night.


End file.
